The Firefighter’s Claim (Obsessed #11)

Chapter 1

one

. . .

Connie

The smoke seeps under my door like a living thing, hungry and searching.

I jolt awake, my lungs already burning, my eyes watering as reality crashes through the fog of sleep.

Something's wrong. Something's terribly wrong.

The wail of sirens cuts through the night, and my stomach drops as I realize they're coming here—to my building.

My phone says 3:17 AM. The air tastes acrid, metallic. Wrong.

"Fire," I whisper, the word dropping from my lips like a stone.

I scramble out of bed, tangling in sheets that suddenly feel like restraints. My new apartment—my first place that's truly mine—is filling with smoke. The independence I've worked so hard for might literally go up in flames tonight.

I grab for my robe but abandon it, prioritizing escape over modesty. The oversized t-shirt I sleep in will have to do. My fingers fumble for the doorknob, but I jerk back, remembering what little I know about fires. The metal feels cool enough, so I crack the door open.

A wall of smoke billows in, thicker and blacker than what had crept beneath my door. The hallway glows with an angry orange light. Fire. Real fire. This isn't a drill or a false alarm.

I slam the door shut, heart hammering so hard I feel it in my fingertips. Think, Connie. Think.

The window. I need to get to the window.

I drop to my hands and knees, crawling across the carpet as smoke fills the upper portion of the room. Four months ago, when I signed the lease, I'd fallen in love with my third-floor apartment's high ceilings. Now, that vertical space is filling with death.

I reach the window, my fingers trembling as I struggle with the latch. It sticks—it always sticks—but panic gives me strength. The window slides up, and cool night air rushes in, momentarily clearing my head. I lean out, gulping fresh oxygen.

Below, chaos unfolds. Fire trucks, police cars, and an ambulance crowd the street. Neighbors huddle in pajamas and bathrobes, faces upturned and horrified. Someone points at me.

"Help!" I scream, my teacher's voice projecting better than expected. "I'm trapped!"

A firefighter looks up, gestures that he sees me. But the building has four floors, dozens of apartments. How many others are trapped? Will they reach me in time?

I glance back at my bedroom door. Smoke seeps through the edges now, curling around the frame like grasping fingers. The sound of crackling grows louder.

With the window open, I have air, but I've created a draft that's feeding the fire. The bedroom door shudders—the pressure or temperature differential pushing against it.

I retreat from the window, crawling back toward my bed. My eyes land on something small and fuzzy on my nightstand—the teddy bear little Jason gave me after his family moved mid-year. "So you don't forget me, Miss Evans," he'd said, eyes serious beneath his mop of dark hair.

I clutch the bear to my chest, this small token of the life I've built, the children I teach. Their faces flash through my mind—twenty-six kindergarteners who call me Miss Evans, who trust me to keep them safe during fire drills. Yet here I am, failing the most basic rule: get out, stay out.

The smoke thickens. My eyes stream tears that have nothing to do with fear. Each breath hurts more than the last. The ceiling ripples with heat waves, paint beginning to bubble.

I press my face into the teddy bear, drawing what comfort I can from its synthetic fur. The irony isn't lost on me—a grown woman of twenty-six, size 18 and hardly delicate, clinging to a child's toy while death approaches. But in this moment, I'm not ashamed of needing something to hold onto.

The sound changes abruptly—wood splintering, a crash that vibrates through the floor. The bedroom door bursts inward, knocked clear off its hinges.

A figure looms in the doorway, massive and dark. For one terrified heartbeat, I think it's the fire itself, taking human form to claim me.

But it's a firefighter, gear making him seem larger than human. He scans the room and locks onto me immediately.

"I've got you," a deep voice calls through the mask. "Don't move."

As if I could. My limbs have turned to water, my lungs to fire. He crosses the room in three long strides, kneeling beside me. Up close, his size is even more apparent—this isn't just the bulky gear. The man beneath it is enormous.

He lifts me like I'm nothing, one arm under my knees, the other supporting my back. My fingers clutch the teddy bear even as my other hand instinctively grabs onto solid muscle. Through tears and smoke, I register blond hair peeking from beneath his helmet, a face blackened with soot.

He adjusts his grip, cradling me closer to his chest. "Hang on tight."

The world tilts as he stands, carrying my full weight without strain. I should be embarrassed—I'm not small, not dainty—but survival trumps dignity. Besides, in his arms, I suddenly feel delicate, protected. It's unfamiliar and intoxicating.

"We're taking the stairs," he says, his voice somehow both gruff and gentle. "Keep your face against me."

I obey, turning into his chest as he navigates the burning hallway. The heat is unbearable, the noise deafening—wood cracking, glass shattering, the building itself seeming to groan in pain.

Yet in his arms, a strange calm washes over me. His breathing is steady and controlled, his movements confident. He isn't afraid, so maybe I don't need to be either.

We reach the stairwell, and he takes the steps two at a time, barely jostling me. I risk a glance up at his face as he navigates downward. He's removed his mask—probably to see better in the stairwell—and what I see steals what little breath I have left.

Beneath the soot and sweat is a face carved from stone—sharp jaw, straight nose, and eyes so intensely blue they cut through the haze around us. They're focused, determined, but when they flick down to meet mine, something changes in them. Something shifts.

For one suspended moment, the fire fades away. The danger recedes. There's just me, this stranger, and a connection that arcs between us like electricity finding the path of least resistance.

His arms tighten around me. I feel the expansion of his chest as he draws a sharp breath.

"I've got you," he says again, but something in his tone has changed. Like he's making a promise that extends beyond this rescue.

We burst through the exit door into the night air. Paramedics rush forward, but my rescuer doesn't immediately hand me over. Instead, he carries me to an ambulance, his gaze never leaving my face.

"What's your name?" he asks, voice rough with smoke and something else.

"Connie," I manage, still clutching the ridiculous teddy bear. "Connie Evans."

His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but something equally powerful. "Dagger Wolfe."

Of course his name is something fierce and dangerous. It suits him perfectly.

He lowers me onto a gurney with surprising gentleness for hands so large. The paramedics swarm around me, but he doesn't step back. His presence remains solid beside me as an oxygen mask is placed over my face.

"You're safe now," he says, those blue eyes burning into mine with an intensity that makes me believe him completely.

I've never felt safer or more vulnerable in my entire life. And despite the chaos around us, despite the fact that my home is currently engulfed in flames, despite the fact that this man is a complete stranger—I don't want him to leave.

As if hearing my thoughts, his hand finds mine, engulfing it completely. "I'm staying right here," he says.

And somehow, I know that he’s going to take care of me.